Hastings (Poirot's sidekick) Simple: You like birds, but cats, not-so-much.
Poirot Not so hasty, Hastings. Ever had a cat, monsieur?
Monsieur No, never. Cats are fine, of course; a charm of their own.
Close friends have cats. True, the preference here does seem to be for dogs. Had several dogs over the years, but no cats.
Poirot Interesting. Not one, monsieur? Not even once in your life?
There was something in the face just now, something in reply to that
question, something the little gray cells noticed right away. (Poirot pauses, then continues) Nothing escapes Hercule Poirot. Think ever so carefully, notice as far back as you can remember.
Monsieur You know, now that you put it that way, there was this one cat. A yellow tabby. Called it George. Had it as a young lad of seven, or about that; one can't be sure of these things, so long ago. Sure was a good friend, George. Used to swing that cat by the neck, on a rope . . . just . . . playing around . . . the way . . . kids . . . do . . . .
The Logic
Stored-up grief comes out in the oddest of ways, sometimes in a word and sometimes in a worry or
an ache, or in a thing not so easy to stomach.
Grief can take a lifetime, or a life, if you neglect it.
Better to find a way to let go what's not so easy
to stomach, so you can get on with the suffering
that seems so integral to living as to be inseparable,
yet so longsuffering as to allow the heart to find delight at the end of the mind, at the end of your days.
